Kushiel's Chosen

The City did not grieve for him as it had for Baudoin de Trevalion, another hero of the realm who had died the same way. That plot had died stillborn, aborted by Melisande's schemes; this one had hatched in full, and the memory of the Royal Army surrounding the City of Elua was too fresh. Still, I do not think anyone rejoiced, either. For my part, I was merely glad it was over.

Early spring I spent immersing myself in my resumed studies in Habiru lore, patiently retracing the steps I had begun a year earlier. I had not forgotten my Prince of Travellers, or given up hope of finding a key to his freedom. I bought some Illyrian books as well, mindful that I did not lose that skill, and practiced by composing a letter to Kazan Atrabiades. Quintilius Rousse would be sailing to Epidauro when the weather cleared, carrying an emissary to discuss trade negotiations. Ysandre had not forgotten her promise, either; and Rousse would be sailing on to Kriti afterward, bearing a very generous gift for the Archon of Phaistos. I wrote letters to Demetrios Asterius also, and his cousin Pasiphae, Kore of the Temenos, whom I thought of often.

When the last of spring's gales had blown themselves out, the shipping routes were open. Rousse's fleet departed from Marsilikos ... and once more, riders from Azzalle vied to be the first at the Palace with the news that the flagship of the Cruarch of Alba had been sighted on the Strait, Ysandre's face brightened at the news, and when she declared it was time at last for a celebration, I agreed wholeheartedly.

"We have had the winter to remember and sorrow, my lady," I said. "It is spring, and a time for joy. I can think of no better reason for celebration than my lord Drustan's return."

"Which we shall do, in abundance, but there is one reason yet lacking, near-cousin." Ysandre looked at me with quizzical amusement; I fear I bewildered her at times, though she loved me well enough. We were very different people, Ysandre and I. "Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, it has not escaped my awareness that I owe my life and my throne to you, you and your companions. I have been awaiting a fitting time to make formal acknowledgment of your deeds. Did you truly think I would let it pass without a fête?"

"Actually," I said, "I did."

EIGHTY-THREE

"But what is she planning to do?" Joscelin demanded.

"I don't know!" I retorted, irritated. "She won't say. Make a speech and toast us in front of the assembled peers of the realm, I imagine. Don't laugh." I pointed at Ti-Philippe, returned this spring from Montrève. "You're included in this, chevalier."

"Oh, I wouldn't miss it." He raised his eyebrows and grinned. "I want to see the faces of those of your patrons in attendance when they learn the whole of what you've done. I don't think many of them truly reckoned they were bedding a genuine tales-of-the-poets heroine."

To his credit, Joscelin merely responded by shying a grape at Philippe's head; Ti-Philippe dodged it, laughing. A great deal had changed between them since La Serenissima. I thought on Ti-Philippe's words, which held a certain truth. 'Tis a strange thing, to be lauded by one's peers, when a number of them have known one naked and pleading. I never set out to be aught but a courtesan. It is an odd quirk of fate that made me otherwise.

"Delaunay's anguissette," Joscelin said aloud, his thoughts following the same course as my own. "He would be proud beyond words, Phèdre; I knew him long enough to know that. Let Ysandre honor you. You've earned it."

"We all have, and you will go too, my lord Cassiline, without fussing." I cocked my head, considering him. "A trip to the barber wouldn't be amiss, either."

Since La Serenissima, Joscelin's hair had grown out in ragged wheat-gold profusion; I do not think he'd had it trimmed since my efforts, but merely bound it back in a braid, wisps escaping down the cabled length of it. I swear he was as careless of his beauty as a rich drunkard with his purse. In the end, I ordered him into Ti-Philippe's custody to be properly shorn, and commissioned new attire for all three of us.

Favrielle nó Eglantine had prospered in my absence; impossible to believe, but her year's tenancy at Eglantine House had already passed, and she had opened a salon of her own in the clothiers' district. It was small, but thriving, occupying the ground floor of a building there. Three assistants she had already-draper, a cutter and a second seamstress-and looked to add more in short order.

"Comtesse," she greeted me, curling her scarred lip; I found myself, oddly, reassured by her unchanged demeanor. "You come at a poor time, as usual. I have a number of commissions on short order, a good many of which seem to be for your gala. I suppose you think I shall make time for you, merely because I am beholden to you?"

"No," I said cheerfully. "You'll make time because it is my gala and you are a shrewd businesswoman, and because I will tell you in detail what they are wearing in the court of the Archon of Phaistos on Kriti. Also, if you wish, about a gown that was made for me based on an ancient poem in Illyria."

Favrielle paused, narrowing her green eyes at me. "Tell me."

I did, while she made sketches and notations, pacing the room, muttering to herself and hauling out swatches of fabric. When I had done, she called crossly for more foolscap and sat for a time sketching furiously and dabbling pigment, showing me the results at length-a gown of sheerest green, pleated and gathered under the breasts in the Kritian style, nigh-transparent over a close-fitting sheath of deep bronze silk. On paper, the effect was of an ancient Hellene statue veiled in thin drapery.

"Very nice," I said, and smiled to see her scowl. "Can you make it in time for the fête?"

She could and did, of course; it was too splendid not to, and Favrielle nó Eglantine had the pride of her genius. In addition, she had powers of persuasion beyond my ken, sufficient to coax Joscelin out of his usual drab Cassiline-inspired greys. It took me aback to see him in a doublet of forest green and breeches to match, sober and elegant. As was his wont, Ti-Philippe wore more festive garb, echoing the same colors, with a close-fitting vest striped green and bronze over dark breeches and a full-sleeved white shirt, and we all of us looked quite fine.

The fête was held in the vast Palace ballroom, with an immense dining table echoing the banquet depicted on the gorgeous murals of Elua and his Companions at banquet; truly, Ysandre spared no expense. Sprays of blossoming branches laced the slender colonnades-peach, cherry and apple-and the tiny glass lamps were filled with clear water that night, shimmering with white light. A fountain played in the grotto, lending its liquid music to the musicians' tunes, while finches in gilt-filigree cages sang sweetly above it all. I thought that we had arrived late, although it was the hour appointed by the Queen's invitation, for it seemed the flower of D'Angeline nobility had already assembled. It was not until the chamberlain announced us that I understood.

"The Comtesse Phèdre nó Delaunay de Montrève, Mes-sire Joscelin Verreuil, the chevalier Philippe Dumont," he called in ringing tones.

Save for the birdsong and fountain, silence fell over the vast space as the music ceased; and then a soft ripple of applause, D'Angeline heads inclined in bows. I had not fully grasped, until then, that we were the guests of honor and the fête awaited on our entrance. Ysandre received us personally, extending both hands in greeting, Drustan mab Necthana at her side.

I had seen him, of course, when he entered the City in procession, but there had been time only for a brief exchange of pleasantries. It gladdened my heart to see him again; his quiet smile, dark eyes calm and steady in his blue-whorled face.

"It is good," he said softly in Cruithne, a tongue we shared, "that we gather to celebrate your courage, Phèdre nó Delaunay."

I thought of Ysandre's ride between the black shields of the Unforgiven, her upraised profile defying the troops of Percy de Somerville, and shook my head. "If I have seen aught of courage, my lord Cruarch, I have seen it in your lady wife, who is my liege and sovereign."

Drustan's dark eyes crinkled with amusement. "Do not say it, or she will be vexed with you; it is her wish to give you your due." He turned to Joscelin, clasping his forearms. "My brother," he said simply. "If you were less skilled with blades, my heart would have died within me that day."

"And the heart of Terre d'Ange with it," Joscelin murmured, returning his grip hard. "I am passing glad to be here today, my lord Cruarch."

With that, Drustan turned to Ti-Philippe; I did not hear what he said, for I was caught up in a whirl of greetings, hands proffered, cheeks pressed close to give the kiss of greeting. There were people there I had not seen for nearly a year-indeed, faces I had last seen gloating over the falling-out I had staged with Ysandre and Drustan. Such is politics. While the fate of the realm hangs in the balance, these things continue. It seemed much longer than a year gone by. I saw the faces of those who knew-Lord Amaury Trente, Lady Vivienne, others who had been present on our terrible race across Caerdicca Unitas-and saw the same knowledge reflected in their eyes, how near a thing it had been. They had been there, in the Temple of Asherat-of-the-Sea, where Benedicte de la Courcel nearly gained the throne of Terre d'Ange.

For the rest, it was merely a poet's tale.

A ten-day siege laid to the City; how quickly and easily people forget! Ysandre's ride had done that, had rendered the whole of Melisande's vast and intricate scheme no more than a misunderstanding, one man's treasonous folly, a footnote in the annals of history. Now, seeing the ease and merriment of the D'Angeline nobles, I understood the true import of her actions.

Not all had forgotten, for Barquiel L'Envers was there. Our eyes met in the crowded ballroom and he inclined his fair-cropped head, according me my due. We had gauged each other wrongly, he and I, and both of us knew it. If our methods were unorthodox, still, our ends had been the same.

Nicola L'Envers y Aragon had tried to tell me as much, and I would not hear her; I had learned that much in the thetalos, the cost of my pride and the ghost of Delaunay's ancient enmity. Small wonder, thinking on it, that I half-thought I had conjured her image between us. But I was wrong, for Nicola was there, amused at my blinking startlement across the crowd; I could not help that my blood beat faster in my veins at it.

I'd no time, though, to speak with Nicola or any number of other guests before the bell rang to summon us to the table. Ysandre and Drustan presided at either end. As her nearest kin and a ranking Duc, Barquiel L'Envers sat at the Queen's right hand and I was across from him at her left in the place of honor; it would have made me nervous, save that Joscelin was seated beside me and Ti-Philippe across from him, alit with unabashed merriment. It was an exceedingly fine repast and the liveried servants circulated with flawless efficiency, pouring wine like water. Course upon course was served; lark and pheasant in delicate pastries, smoked eel, a rack of lamb stuffed with currants and a crumbling white cheese, roasted bream, quivering jellies flavored with nutmeg and bay leaves ... I cannot remember what all we ate nor all we discussed, save that the conversation sparkled and the plates and goblets gleamed, and there is a glow on that night that endures in memory.

When the last course had been served and the last dinner platter cleared, Ysandre de la Courcel clapped her hands. Servants came round again to fill our glasses of cordial and set out dishes filled with candied orange and lemon peel, arranged to resemble bunches of flowers with sugared violets at their centers. Partway down the table, Thelesis de Mornay rose and bowed, commanding our attention as she announced the entrance of Gilles Lamiz, her gifted apprentice-poet. We dipped our hands in the finger bowls of rosewater before applauding politely.

I had seen the young man before in Thelesis' quarters; he assisted her in many things, and had taken notation for her when I related the long tale of my adventures. 'Twas for her work on the Ysandrine Cycle, I had assumed, only partially correct. Thelesis' dark, lovely eyes glowed with pleasure as her surprise was revealed-Gilles Lamiz was working on his own, more modest offering, too.

'Twas a poem based upon my exploits, and those of my companions.

It was not a bad effort and he recited it well, in a clear tenor voice that owed its richness to his mentor's training. I rested my chin in my palm and listened, amazed to hear my own deeds recounted thusly, if not wholly as I remembered them. Young Gilles had listened well and captured the grieving madness of La Dolorosa, but he omitted the stench and tedium. My retort to Melisande Shahrizai's offer resounded with dignity, and not the skull-splitting reality of the desperate defiance I recalled. I thought the magnificent daring of Joscelin's attack on the black isle was well rendered, and Ti-Philippe's heroic marshaling of their scarce-trained Yeshuite allies to hold the tower, but both of them laughed afterward, saying there was a considerable measure of panic and terror that went unmentioned.

So it went, and I must own, it sounded a good deal more impressive when set into verse. The sea-flight, the kríavbhog and the storms were all fearful, which was no more than the truth. Kazan Atrabiades came off as rather dashing, which made me smile; it would have pleased him, I think. In Gilles' version, Demetrios Asterius, the Archon of Phaistos, rendered his aid out of adoration for my beauty. I reckoned that did poor justice to his shrewd trader's wiles, but the D'Angeline nobles around the table glanced at me from the corners of their eyes and nodded sagely, more than willing to believe it true.

One tale missing was that of the thetalos, for that I had not told, even to Thelesis de Mornay. It is a mystery, and of such things one cannot speak to the uninitiated; it sufficed to say that there was a ritual, and Kazan Atrabiades of Epidauro was cleansed of blood-guilt. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">